


it feels better biting down

by crimsonxflowers



Category: The Passage (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mind Control, Scene Rewrite, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-28 19:04:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17793008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonxflowers/pseuds/crimsonxflowers
Summary: "Go on, Clark Richards. Tell her. Am I in your head?"





	it feels better biting down

**Author's Note:**

> little rewrite of a scene from 1x05, if clark was a bit more under shauna's thrall, if shauna was a bit bolder about when she butts into clark's thoughts, and if nichole was a bit more fed up with clark's bullshit.

“Clark. It’s just you and me here,” Nichole says, glancing down the hallway before her gaze returns to his, all her concern plain in her eyes. It makes something in his gut twist, the trust on her face. He pushes it down—it’s not something a soldier should feel, not when they do what they do here. Nichole takes a steadying breath, continues, “and I’m asking as someone who cares about you. Is Shauna Babcock in your head?”

He goes still. Nichole keeps talking, but whatever she’s saying, it’s drowned out by the buzzing in his ears, the panic. He watches Nichole’s mouth move, but her voice seems miles away. Maybe he could tell her. Maybe she’d understand—

Somehow, almost imperceptibly, the shadows shift, and he knows she’s there. He doesn’t have to turn around to see her, he can feel the empty space where she should be (should be? she shouldn’t be anywhere but her cell, what is  _wrong_ with him—) and the way it’s suddenly-not-empty-anymore behind him. He hears her step closer, feels her hands land gently on his hips as she presses close. He doesn't— _can’t_ —shake her off; he’s frozen to the spot by something more than her touching him. She laughs and he can  _feel_ how it rumbles in her chest, the weight of her dense and cold against his spine as she leans up to hook her chin over his shoulder. "Go on, Clark Richards. Tell her." She presses against him tighter, and her lips brush the shell of his ear as she whispers, "Am I in your head?”   

He can feel her eyes on him. He can feel Nichole’s eyes on him. He doesn’t know how she can do this, how much stronger she’s gotten (how much  _weaker_ he’s gotten) that she can just… invade their conversations so easily, while he’s awake. But Nichole won’t help him. Nichole can’t help him. She’s all bleeding heart and idealism, and she doesn't  _understand._  They’re just doing what has to be done. 

Her hands tighten around his hips, grounding him, and her hair brushes against his cheek as she tilts her head against his. This is all in his head, he shouldn’t be able to smell her, the floral scent that clings to her hair, the metallic tang of dried blood underneath. Through the fog, he shakes his head, doesn’t meet Nichole’s searching gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

All the compassion in Nichole’s face shutters away, like he knew it would, and she steps back. Keeps stepping back, until she turns around and walks out, white coat flowing behind her. Some part of him wants to reach out and reassure her—that’s what he’s done, isn’t it, been Nichole’s mooring line since they started this thing between them—but behind him,  _she_ hums, her hands heavy as ice as they slide up his sides, across his chest. “Your head’s not where I’m at, huh?” And her hand slides down, down until—his hand wraps around the cool skin of her wrist, and the bones under his fingers feel so thin, so easy to snap. But she just giggles when his grip tightens, and he lets go like he’s been burned. Her hands slide back across his chest instead, her arms wrapping around him in an almost crushing embrace as she presses her face to his throat—and  _inhales_.

He wanted her to stop. He wanted her to keep going. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s supposed to want anymore.

“Don’t worry, Clark,” she murmurs against his ear again, smooth as silk, and he can’t stop the way he shudders as she presses tight against his back. “Plenty of time for that later.” She trails her lips from his ear down to his neck—this isn't  _real,_  she’s not actually  _here_ , but real fear races through his veins as she bares her teeth against his throat. He thinks it’s a smile. He can’t be sure. He can't  _move_. “Plenty of time for this too,” she says, and he feels her mouth open against his skin, the points of her fangs pressing down—

The light shifts again, and he’s alone, hand pressed against the cold glass as he gasps for breath. Nichole is long gone.

It’s just him.

**Author's Note:**

> comments make my day, or come talk to me about thrall!clark on [tumblr](http://meyerlansky.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
